Perfectionist
by saidtheirnevers
Summary: Mello is a perfectionist. That's why every night has him creeping to the bathrooms for a little one-on-one with the bowl. M/M friendship only, WH.


saidtheirnevers: I'm supposed to be working on my Harry Potter fic, but that's not happening right now. I can't get into the right thematic mood. I'm not a professional; I go wherever my emotions take me. Today, they take me here, to the cavernous depths of perfectionism.

NOTE: This is rated T, but it could be rated M for disturbing images. If the rating bothers anyone, please let me know.

Disclaimer: Don't own.

* * *

Mello is a perfectionist. Always has been, always will be. He can't stand being anything but the best, and that, others have told him, will be his downfall someday. His prompt response was that anyone who wasn't the best was just a loser. And in a competitive world like this one, that's true. Mello pushes himself harder than any other student, and yet he has been forsaken by whatever god favors little white-faced brats who never try but always succeed. He almost kills himself every day with the stress.

So it's no surprise, to him anyway, that as the stress gets worse, his stash of junk food gets bigger. Late at night, after all the other kids are asleep, Mello pulls from under his bed his little pile of cookies and chips and soda--he can never go without the soda. Matt's such a heavy sleeper, such a loud snorer, that he's never once woken during these episodes. Mello smiles to himself, almost in spite, as he watches the sleeping redhead, so protective and defensive during the day, now helpless to save his best friend from himself. It's funny, he notes as he continues to eat and eat, how facades posed during the day somehow wash away by night.

Bathrooms are arranged one per floor, like a high school locker room. Toilets here, showers there, little places to put things in between. It's an unspoken rule, almost, that no kid ever goes to the bathroom between midnight and three, so Mello takes advantage. It's not as adventurous as it once was, but he's never done it for the thrill anyway. He goes into his favorite stall--third from the right--and stares into the toilet, beginning his usual foreplay, as he calls it. He watches the still water, gathers up saliva under his tongue, and spits. It readies him, calms him. He removes his rosary and places it, gently but firmly, on the tank cover. Then, slowly--almost apprehensively, though it's the norm by now--he leans over, looks at his hand. His nails are too long, he notices, moments before those nails are at the back of his throat.

Toilet water splashes in his face, a disgusting punishment for a disgusting act. But, he thinks as he feels his stomach get lighter and lighter, what becomes normal can't truly be disgusting, can it? After all, it's still sweet.

Mello finishes his ministrations and flushes the toilet twice with his left hand. He grabs the rosary off the back of the toilet and unlocks the door, washes his hands and face, and creeps back to bed.

---

The alarm goes off early in the morning, but Mello is already awake and watching rain beat down on the window panes. Strange, he thinks, how it's so simple: be his best during the day, be anything but at night. If only it weren't for that perfect little twit Near, he'd have this routine down. Instead, he fails all hours of the day, never scoring well enough, but never managing to control himself once the lights go out. Horrible, really.

"Morning, Mel..." Matt yawns. "Why're you always up so early, anyway? Don't you ever sleep?"

Mello doesn't answer, only tells himself over and over again that sleep is never the answer. Continuing on through whatever may come...that is the only solution.

---

That night, Mello finds himself in the bathroom again. He gets in and performs, and he is about to turn the lock when the heavy door to the bathroom creaks open. Footsteps sleepily stagger around, a stall door slams shut. After a moment, the toilet flushes, the sink water runs, and the footsteps retreat to the door, which opens and closes. Silence. The blond silently lets out a held breath and opens the door, darting toward the sinks. Before he can make it, a light flips on.

"Mello!" a familiar, though sleep-cracked, voice hisses accusingly.

"Shit!" He tries to duck back into the stall, but it's no use; Matt's already seen his hand, his face.

"I knew it! God damn it, Mel, I knew it! I--"

"Don't you dare tell anyone, Matt." Mello panics, facing away from Matt even though the stall protects him from sight. "I'll...I'll give you anything if you don't tell."

"Anything?" At first, the voice sounds interested. Then... "That's a damn lie and you know it."

Mello shivers, though it's not cold. "It hasn't been that long, Matt. I can stop whenever."

"That's what they all say."

"How would you know?"

Matt hesitates. "That's it. Roger! Roger!" He opens the bathroom door and takes off running for the stairs. "Roger!"

"Shit!" Mello dashes to the nearest sink and begins scrubbing his hands and his mouth furiously. "Matt!" he whisper-screams. "Matt, don't! I'll...I'll buy you whatever game--"

"Roooogeeeer!!!" Matt's already halfway to the first floor, where Roger usually falls asleep in his office. "Roger!"

Mello, hands, face, and hair dripping wet, races after, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. "Matt, no! Matt, stop! Matt, Matt, Matt...don't! Please stop! Please!" If he had enough time, he would've gotten down on his damn knees, but he can't because he _has_ to catch Matt. "Matt, if you tell, I'll stop being your friend!"

"That's all you have to take away, isn't it?" Matt whispers, almost inaudibly, before resuming his cries. "Roger! Roger Roger Roger Roger Roger Roger Ro--"

"Matt..." the weary, old voice creaks from inside the still-lit office, "what is it this time? Did Mello take your game again?" This isn't the first time Matt has come running to authority; nobody will suspect anything. At least, that's what Mello tells himself, hopes, wishes...

"No. He's puking his guts out every night." Matt spits the words not in Roger's direction but in Mello's. "Right, Mello?"

"I-- um--"

"See? You don't even have an answer!" the redhead shouts. "You don't even have a God damn answer! That's just--"

"No! You're completely overreacting--" he tries to explain, but what is there to explain?

"I am _not_ overreac--"

"Boys." Roger's low, gravelly voice somehow cuts over the shouted arguing. "Matt. You think Mello has...an eating disorder." Matt nods twice, and Mello wants to snap his neck from the concerned expression on his friend's face. "Mello, is this true?"  
Mello puts on his most innocent face and shakes his head, staring reproachfully at his redheaded ex-friend.

"Well, that settles it. Matt, stay away from Mello. Mello, the same. Good night."

"But-- but--" Matt sputters, and while he stands there, gaping at Roger, Mello slinks back upstairs and into the shared bedroom.

---

When Matt returns, after a rather loud shouting episode downstairs, Mello expects him to blow up again, to say something. Instead, the redhead climbs into bed and pulls the covers over his entire body. It's not long before the dark lump on the bed begins to shake, as if blankets weren't enough to shield him from a cold winter draft.

---

Tomorrow comes too soon, and all Mello wants is to curl himself into a little ball and disappear. He keeps his eyes tightly shut until a shove knocks him into the wall.

"What the hell!"

"If you don't get up, you'll miss breakfast. Though I don't suppose you'd keep any of it in you, right?" Mello turns over to look at Matt, whose appearance, though dressed in its signature white T-shirt and brown shorts, looks off somehow. His red hair looks too messy, his face too pale. The blond groans but sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

"For the record, I only do it at night. If you've been so observant, why haven't you noticed at least that?" He stands up, feeling slightly lightheaded as he does, and moves toward his dresser.

Matt sighs and turns away. "For the record, I'm only mad at you. Of _course_ I noticed. Just...follow Roger's advice, and let me stay away from you. Have a good breakfast." He stalks out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

--

All through breakfast, Mello watches Near. Matt sits on the other side of the room, not for the first time. Almost every week, a fight breaks them up, and whenever that happens, Mello spends the day watching Near. The boy never seems to eat much, he notices. A few bites, and then he leaves.

"Disgusting," he mutters to himself as the small boy gets up and leaves for his room. "Just...horrible."

From his spot directly behind the cafeteria door, Mello sees Near's thin figure and frowns. Perfect, he thinks. Just...too damn perfect, in every single way. Does he _have_ to beat the blond in _everything_, no matter how little the brat tries? Does he _have_ to be smart and skinny and adorable and innocent in every way Mello can never be?! Does he _have_ to have no stains on his blank white little perfect-record?! Mello turns away and stares at the wall. Across the room, Matt pushes his spoon through a still-full bowl of soggy cereal before getting up and leaving himself.

Class is excruciating without Matt. Every other time they've fought, Matt had still been in classes, a pillar of light and truth directly in front of Mello. Today, he's gone. Mello thinks about skipping the afternoon and looking for Matt, but what good will that do? Their friendship is probably already ruined for good, and all because Mello can't get his damn act together. There's just no reason, he thinks, for anybody to do what he does. It's gruesome, it's horrible, it's _shameful_, it's-- it's-- _normal_, now, and he can't do anything to stop it. Not that he hasn't tried. God knows he's tried.

Somehow, he manages to survive until dinner. He stands in the line of orphans waiting to eat, and he thinks about everything he wants but can't have.

Wisdom. Motivation. Moderation. Perfection.

Mello turns away, leaves the line, leaves the room, leaves the whole damn house, and sits on the lawn underneath his bedroom window, knees tucked up against his chest, arms locked together, holding himself in his tight little ball. Nothing can penetrate him now, nothing. Not darkness nor sadness nor bad thoughts. As the sun goes down he sits there, in his personal stronghold, waiting for the feeling of invulnerability that _has_ to come.

_Clunk_.

"Ouch!" Mello grabs at whatever hit him on the head. In the half-darkness, he feels for the shape and size of the object. It's rectangular and flat, with a papery film covering it. A bar of chocolate.

"Are you going to come back inside, or am I going to have to pull you up in a basket?" calls a voice from the second story. A head pops out of the window, moonlight glinting off of goggles that cover half of the face.

Mello stands and considers chucking the chocolate back at its original wielder. He decides against this course of action and makes his way around the corner to the back door. It's still unlocked. It always is.

He pads down the hallway to the stairs. Matt meets him halfway up, grabbing his hand and leading the way to their room. It's dark, but Matt guides Mello into the room and to the right, seating him down on a bed that smells of plastic and clean socks. Matt's bed. The redhead hugs him tightly, too tightly for Mello to bear on an empty stomach, but he bears it anyway, because he doesn't deserve this.

"I'm sorry," Matt whispers, and Mello wants to reply that no, _he's_ the one who should be sorry, but he can't. He can only sob into Matt's shoulder and hope that conveys the message clearly enough.


End file.
